In Bloom

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘WHERE. IS. MY. WIFE?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’

  ‘WHERE’S MARNIE?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know!’

  ‘You must do, she tells you everything.’

  ‘She’s left you?’ I laughed. ‘Wow, I didn’t think she had it in her.’

  ‘She’s taken my son with her!’ he cried. ‘She’s taken my son!’

  ‘Well she would, wouldn’t she?’

  His breath still stank of garlic. Did he ever brush his teeth? Not good for an ex-Army man. That’s a drop-and-give-me-fifty offence if ever I saw one.

  ‘Tell me where she is or I swear to god I will make you regret it.’ His knuckles were cold and hard under my chin.

  ‘Oi, what’s going on out here?’

  My knight in shining Pringle – Jim – was already marching down the front steps towards us, rolling up his cashmere sleeves. Following closely behind was Tink, yapping and scrabbling along the parquet hallway.

  Tim released my lapels and I ran into Jim’s arms again, like when he saved me from that evil lady detective who was always hounding me. Mein Fuhrer totally switched on the old charm then of course.

  ‘Sir, my wife is missing. I’m sorry to cause such a scene on Christmas Eve and I hope you can please see my side of this but I have to find her. She’s not in her right mind and she’s got my son.’

  Tink yapped at Tim’s trouser hems and was swiftly kicked away by the toe of his jackboot. She took no notice and went back for some yappy more.

  ‘Well Rhiannon clearly doesn’t know anything so I suggest you get off my property now before I call the police.’ Jim was holding me in a hard embrace and rubbing my arms to keep me warm.

  Tim held up his hands. ‘I’m going.’ He stared me out then carried on walking back towards the garden gate. ‘If you know, you better tell me or else.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to say anything,’ Jim called out. ‘Now bugger off.’

  Tim closed the gate behind him and disappeared.

  When Jim had escorted me safely inside and I’d done a bit of dramatic breathing to further illustrate my trauma, he went upstairs to change and I went into the lounge. Through the bay windows I saw Tim sitting on the seafront bench opposite. I could have left him to stew. To wallow. To carry on suffering, wondering where his wife had gone. It was torment enough.

  But he had kicked my dog. And nobody does that and lives for long.

  I quietly opened the front door and slipped back outside, bracing myself in the freezing air. I crossed the road and stood before him, underneath the gloomy street lamp and fairy lights swinging on a salty Christmas breeze.

  ‘I’m not leaving until I know,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay out here all night if I have to. You have to understand, I am desperate. My son, Rhiannon. I need him’.

  ‘I do understand,’ I said. ‘Why do you think I’m out here?’

  ‘Has she gone abroad? Her passport’s gone. She told you where she was going, didn’t she? She must have said—’

  ‘Do you know the Well House? Up on the Cliff Road?’ I asked.

  He frowned. ‘The one right at the top? Yeah. Why?’

  ‘If you meet me there at midnight I’ll take you straight to her.’

  ‘Why there? Why midnight?’

  ‘You’ll find out, I promise you. Don’t be late.’

  Tuesday, 25th December – 33 weeks, 3 days

  1.Old people who moan at young people ‘always being on their phones’.

  2.Big Headed Edna at WOMBAT – I’d tell her to go fuck herself if she could find it under all the flab.

  3.The doctor on Web MD who says baby kicks ‘aren’t that painful’.

  4.People who wear flip-flops in winter.

  5.The entire royal family.

  Updated AJ’s Facebook as soon as I woke up – Happy Christmas from China guys! That’s me on the Great Wall! It’s got thirty-three Likes already.

  Today was nice. Not Christmassy, despite all the tinsel and lights and cranberries forced down my neck, but nice. Just me, Jim, Elaine and Tink. We opened our presents together – I got Jim a model boat kit, aftershave, a new kneeler for his gardening, and a hardback war book he’d been on about.

  ‘Oh that’s fantastic, what a kind thought. Thank you, darling!’

  Elaine had a jumper, some perfume and matching hand cream, and a set of Yankee Candles.

  ‘Aww, Rhiannon you must have spent a fortune. We’re so lucky!’

  They got me the Applewood Cottage set, complete with vegetable patch, garden furniture and panda family (good), a blouse (hideous), books (two New Mummy ones, one Baby’s First Year and a Sylvanians page-to-a-day diary), perfume that made me rashy, a Pandora bracelet that didn’t fit and some DVDs of films I’d never expressed an interest in seeing.

  ‘Thanks guys. This is all… rather lovely.’

  Then came the obligatory roast dinner, stomach ache, fart fest, beachy dog walk and marathon TV watch, followed by a stare down the barrel of a whole week with only chronic indigestion and each other for company.

  I didn’t give them their joint present until they were both in their pyjamas.

  ‘Hey, I forgot this other present I was meant to give you, sorry. I just found it down the side of the sofa.’ I produced the white envelope with a flourish and handed it to Jim.

  ‘Another one?’ he yawned. ‘You’ve got us enough, Rhiannon.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not much, honestly. Go on, open it.’ I lifted up Tink to watch them quizzically peel back the gum on the envelope.

  Elaine frowned. She looked at Jim, looked back to the tickets and looked at me. ‘For us?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re both booked on the sleeper tomorrow morning.’

  Jim laughed. ‘It’s a week in Scotland, love. We’ll be there for Hogmanay! Oh Rhiannon, this is too much.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s a thank you for looking after me and Tink so well. It’s the least I can do.’

  Elaine started crying. ‘But tomorrow? I won’t be ready. I haven’t packed. Look at the state of the kitchen.’

  ‘’We can pack now, love,’ said Jim.

  ‘Yeah, and I can tidy all this up, that’s no bother,’ I said.

  She was still putting up hurdles. ‘How are we going to get to the train station? Where will we leave the car? It’s such short notice.’

  ‘It’s meant to be short notice, it’s a surprise, Elaine,’ I said. ‘I’ll take you both to the station in the morning so you don’t have to worry about parking. It’s all arranged. I’ve booked you a five-star hotel in Edinburgh and everything.’

  Elaine stroked Tink’s head. ‘When are we back?’

  ‘New Year’s Day.’

  ‘What about you? What about Tink? Who’s going to look after you?’

  ‘I can look after myself. I have friends here I can call on if I need anyone. And do you want to take her with you like you did to the Lakes?’

  ‘Shall we do that, love?’ asked Jim, practically jumping on the spot.

  ‘I can’t walk her as often as you guys do,’ I added. ‘Take her to Scotland, show her the sights. She’s allowed on the sleeper.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elaine, snuggling Tink against her face. Tink licked her nose. ‘We could do that.’

  Jim looked at me as Elaine stared down at the tickets in her hands. ‘What is it, love?’

  ‘New Year’s Day is next year. I didn’t want to think about next year yet. We’ve got it all to come, haven’t we? The trial.’

  ‘That’s next year,’ said Jim. ‘Let’s just think about this one for now.’

  She choked with tears. ‘I’ve always wanted to go up for New Year’s. Thank you, Rhiannon.’ She leaned over for a hug which Tink pre-empted and jumped from my arms into hers. ‘Are you sure we can take her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I opened Marnie’s present last of all while Jim was tidying up the wrapping paper and smoothing it out to use again next year, and Elaine was rooting around in the laundry b
asket to put a late wash on. It was a book – a scruffy old copy of The Wind in the Willows with childish writing inside the front cover.

  Property of Marine Gallo, year 3

  The only writing inside the book was a single line that had been underlined in red ink on page twenty-three:

  This day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated Mole…

  I was smiling about that all afternoon.

  *

  Once I was sure both Jim and Elaine were sleeping, I snuck out and drove up to the Well House. I unlocked the back door, unfastened the bolts on the Perspex lid and made myself a cup of tea. Then I walked through to the lounge and just waited. By 12.03 am my rat was in the trap squeling his head off.

  ‘Get me out of here!’ came the pained echo from the open hole. ‘I’ve broken my fucking leg! Please!’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I called down. ‘There’ll be people renting this place out at the end of January. I’m sure they’ll want you out before they can settle in.’ I threw him down a Selection Box. ‘I’d try and eke it out if I were you.’

  Tim began to sob and the sobs echoed around the hole, punctuated by his short breaths.

  ‘Oh, stop being so dramatic.’

  ‘I’m… I’ll fucking kill you, fucking bitch!’

  ‘Not if I kill you first.’

  *

  I took Tink up to bed with me tonight for one last time. I thought she would do what she used to and sleep curled up in a nook of my arm but she didn’t. Half an hour after lying down, she heard Jim having a coughing fit and ran out of my room and into his. I heard her jump up onto his bed instead. She stayed there all night.

  Wednesday, 26th December – 33 weeks, 4 days

  1.Petrol station pump hogs – get petrol, pay for petrol, leave. Don’t start buying lattes and sacks of charcoal. Get a damn move on.

  Got Jim and Elaine to the train station without a hitch.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ asked Jim, loading Tink’s bed and bag of toys into the boot of the Focus. ‘You’re not going to be lonely?’

  ‘I’ll be A-Okay, I promise,’ I said, jangling their keys. ‘I’m meeting the Pudding Club later for their Christmas party and parlour games. I promise I’ll be fine.’

  Of course I had draped a tissue of lies over my deeds. I had nothing planned and nobody to see. All of my bridges had been burned – no WOMBAT, no Pudding Club, no antenatal buddies, no Tink and no family. It was just me and my enormous bump, walking in the rain.

  It was hard saying goodbye to Tink at the station, but she didn’t seem at all bothered. My throat hurt as I rubbed my cheek on her velvety ear but she was more concerned with getting back into Jim’s arms, near his glasses pocket with the chicken bites inside.

  Had a text from Keston on my return – All sorted for NYE. Will pick up at 5pm. Flight leaves 7.45pm. Don’t text back. Ditch your phone ASAP.

  So that was about as reassuring as aromatherapy on a cancer ward and therefore I was stressed for the rest of the morning.

  The Pudding Club have put a picture of them all on Instagram, wearing Christmas knits and paper hats, sitting before an enormous professionally-decorated tree in Pin’s living room. The kids are running amok in tutus and onesies and Helen has a right face on her, like she’s just discovered her mince pie isn’t Fair Trade. Pin’s husband Clive’s wearing his apron and brandishing a massive turkey baster like he’s about to impregnate the world. They have a couple of new preggos in the throng; all blonde and white bread smiley and accepting of their bullshit. Much more their type of parents, I’m sure.

  I went for a walk after lunch – through the side streets and all along the seafront. It was strange walking without a dog beside me. Strangely freeing. I didn’t have to break my stride as Tink stopped to sniff lampposts or chew dewy grass. I could walk and walk. Aside from some clusters of families farting out their Christmas roasts on the beach, there weren’t many people around and no shops were open, save the newsagent’s and a café which was closing early. I bought a paper – front page was yet another Hollywood star caught with his cock out. The funicular railway was closed until New Year, same as the Temperley ferry. I wondered where me and the baby would be when they opened up again.

  I don’t want to leave.

  I walked around the churchyard. Nobody about. Well, I mean there were bodies about, but none living. WOMBAT were always moaning about the graveyard because the council wouldn’t let them tidy it up – there was always litter collected in the corners or dog mess and some of the stone crosses on the larger graves had to be laid down, rather than standing upright, because ‘one headstone had collapsed on someone in the Seventies’. It looked unsightly but I guess needs must when people will sue for anything nowadays.

  I must have walked around that graveyard a dozen times since I’d been living in Monks Bay but I’d never read the graves before – never thought about what the inscriptions meant. A grave is a grave, right? There were lots of In Loving Memory dedications, a few instances of Here lies my beloved wife, and Fond and tender memories of our precious sister. The Talbots – a man and wife who died one day apart in their eighties at the turn of the century – ‘I heard the voice of Jesus say Come unto me and rest.’

  Are you listening to me? I said I don’t want to leave. We can’t just go. What about Jim and Elaine? What about Tink? You haven’t even left them a note.

  And babies. Lots of graves for babies. Millicent Ogden – called to the higher life aged one month; Cecil William Hames, born asleep 1853; Sarah Mary McTavish, died aged twenty-six hours. Our darling Jane Counsell, taken with her mother Bella in childbirth, 1903. And the twins – Catherine and John – who died ‘after only a few breaths’.

  My bump ached and tightened. I kept on walking around. One of the headstones was of a sea captain lost in the First World War – his body was never recovered but they buried his uniform there as a lasting tribute. On the top of the stone was a clump of ivy and hidden beneath it were two little ships engraved and some writing – They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; These see the works of the Lord… He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven.

  Bloody boats again. ‘Yeah all right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the hint now. You can stop with the boats.’

  I’m not going. I’m not leaving. You can’t make me.

  Everyone in that graveyard was much loved or much missed or had taken with them a piece of someone’s heart. There were no murderers, no paedophiles. No one had left a tombstone engraved with ‘He was a massive cock and deserved the pain he felt in his last days’, nothing like that. Not that the council would let anyone put that, I suppose.

  There were fresh flowers on some of the graves, going back to the Fifties and Sixties. People still remembered them.

  Who would miss me? Where would my grave be? Who would stand at my grave and weep? I suppose I’ll be dead anyway so what will I care?

  All the benches were rain-spackled so I sat down on the cross-less plinth of Oswald Faustinus Garland who had ‘entered into eternal rest’ in 1895. He was nineteen. Same as AJ. Aside from my still-growling stomach, I felt rested. I always do when I’m around death. It’s like nothing else matters. The plug is pulled and all the shit drains away – it’s just me and my maker, thinking things through.

  ‘We’ll be okay,’ I said aloud. ‘Wherever we end up, we will be fine. We can start anew. New name. No more killing, not if you don’t want me to. I’ll give it up. I’ll find happiness some other way.’

  Nothing.

  ‘You not talking to me now? Why are you hurting me?’

  Nothing.

  ‘We have to go. It’s too risky to wait any longer. God you ache today.’

  I felt a movement in my peripheral vision – an old woman with a Christmas wreath – ivy, red roses, pine cones, sprigs of holly, dried orange slices and cinnam
on stick bundles. It was Elephant Vadge Madge from WOMBAT. She normally didn’t like confrontation but I knew what she was going to say, even how she would say it.

  ‘Who are you talking to, Rhiannon?’

  ‘God,’ I said, quick as a blink. She seemed contented with that answer.

  ‘I see. I talk to Him myself sometimes, when I need some answers or some guidance. Did you have a good Christmas?’

  ‘So so.’

  ‘You know you’re not meant to sit on the graves,’ said Madge.

  ‘All the benches are wet,’ I said, an arrow of pain shooting through my bump from my ass. ‘Not that comfortable anyway.’ I struggled to my feet, shooting pains up both thighs. She offered me her gloved hand and helped me up. I nodded towards the wreath. ‘Are you on the flower rota today?’

  ‘No, I’ve come to see Stan. I come every year on Boxing Day. Eleven years today he passed over. It’s important to me to keep coming.’

  We walked in the direction of Stan’s plot – a small black marble headstone that looked brand new – recessed gold lettering bearing the name of Stanley Lawrence Pugh, Beloved Husband of Margaret, Father of Andrew and Josephine. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.

  Madge lay her wreath on the rectangle of disturbed earth where Stan’s body lay. ‘Are you visiting someone here as well?’

  ‘No. I just came out for a walk.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yeah. I need to be on my own sometimes. I’m not good around others.’

  ‘You should come back to WOMBAT. Pay no attention to Edna and Doreen and Nancy. Nobody likes them anyway, we just put up with them.’ She nudged my elbow and cheeky-grinned.

  ‘Why are you being nice? I barely said two words to you at WOMBAT.’

  ‘“Let all bitterness and wrath and anger be put away from you. Be kind to one another, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”’

  ‘Proverbs?’

  ‘Ephesians Four, if my memory serves me correctly.’